


Shades

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Pre-Fellowship, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6789664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reports of strange deaths lead Legolas and Aragorn to southern Mirkwood. But underneath the growing shadow, evil has become more cunning and bold, and soon the hunters become the prey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strange Tidings

**Author's Note:**

> I have a handful of LOTR fics over on ff.net from 2015, and hadn't transferred them over before because I didn't think there was an audience for them over here. But I stand corrected by at least one person, so in case there are other LOTR fans on this site, here we go.
> 
> Set ten years before the Fellowship. I’m following the movie verse in most things, including the T-rating for movie-level monster violence.
> 
> Disclaimer: I make no claims on Tolkien’s brainchild or Peter Jackson’s vision. This is merely a mental exercise in characterization for entertainment. Plus an excuse for whump and h/c.

 

Legolas listened to the report from the scouts recently returned from the central parts of Mirkwood. They had gone to assess whether orc strongholds were being erected in preparation of further encroachment upon the elven defenses in the north. None had been found, thank the Valar, but the scouts did come across strange tidings. Frozen, almost petrified remains of animals had been discovered close to the more southern parts of the wood. The weather had not been so harsh, and the scouts had never seen or heard of a disease that might be the cause. One elf ventured west of the forest into a few dwellings of Men where he heard tales of humans vanishing in the night, only to be found in the woods later, frozen in a similar manner to the animals.

“I spoke with a traders’ caravan traveling up from the south,” the scout relayed. “Two of his men disappeared on separate nights. Only one was later found, apparently frozen to death, though there had been no storms or snow recently.”

Thranduil’s sharp gaze never wavered as he listened. When the scout was finished, only then did the Elven-King nod and give a slight wave of the wrist. “You are dismissed.”

With stiff bows, the three scouts turned on their heels and left the dais. Thranduil remained seated on his throne, face a mask of impassivity. Fighting his impatience, Legolas flicked his gaze to the ceiling where roots dangled through the underground hall like tattered banners. His father was not one to be rushed, yet a disagreement was swiftly on the horizon, for Legolas knew Thranduil’s mind all too well.

“What did you make of the report?” Legolas finally asked, unable to bide his time any longer.

Thranduil rose gracefully from his seat and strode toward a small table to pour himself a chalice of wine. “The lack of enemy strongholds is good news. We may be able to push the darkness back in the intermittence.” Both knew that was the best they could hope for.

“And of these strange deaths?” Legolas prodded.

“Curious, but of no consequence.” Thranduil turned his head slightly to appraise his son; he too knew where Legolas’s thoughts leaned.

“If there is some new evil lurking in the southern wood, we should investigate further.”

“A few animals and humans succumbing to the elements or disease is hardly cause for concern.”

Legolas bit back a frustrated sigh. His father had maintained an isolationist mindset for as long as Legolas could remember. The Battle of Five Armies sixty-seven years ago had done nothing to change that. In fact, the spilling of elven blood in the defense of other races had perhaps worsened Thranduil’s position. He devoted himself only to the Woodland Realm.

As was right, to a degree, but Legolas did not believe in sitting back and waiting for enemies to arrive on their doorstep before battling them. If something foul was stirring in southern Mirkwood, he would rather strike it down before it grew strong enough to even consider challenging the Wood-elves.

“You are thinking of defying me again,” Thranduil said calmly, holding the goblet’s rim to his lips.

Legolas gave his father a canted look. It had been decades since the last time. “How can I defy you when no order has yet been given?”

Father and son gazed at each other intently, like two statues with only the crackling spirit in their eyes to suggest the battle of wills.

“It is a waste of time and resources,” Thranduil said with a patience that belied his growing irritation.

“Consider it a follow-up scouting mission,” Legolas countered. “This report is several days’ old. Who knows what may have transpired in that time.”

The barest frown tugged at Thranduil’s lips, and he sipped from his chalice to mask it. Both of them knew Legolas would not be dissuaded. The only question remaining was whether his actions would be sanctioned or in direct violation of orders. As Prince of the Woodland Realm, there were few punishments for the latter, though it would undoubtedly strain the relationship with his father, which already contained the tension of a taut bowstring.

At last, Thranduil turned away, neither condoning nor forbidding his son to look into the matter. It was the best compromise the two could achieve with each other.

Legolas gathered his weapons and a small pack of supplies for the journey. He needed little, and intended to set off immediately. The report the scouts had brought back also included which paths were currently free from spider infestations, so the trek should be relatively smooth and unimpeded.

The trees stirred restlessly as he passed silently beneath their boughs. What were once great and proud sycamore and cypress, oak and ash, were now gnarled and cowed shadows of their former being. The darkness over Mirkwood may have eased since the White Council drove Sauron from Dol Guldur, but its influence remained. There was no joy or song in the whispers that flitted through leaves, only hushed anxiety.

Legolas pulled up short when the malcontent murmurings shifted their attention—there was a stranger in the forest. He unslung his bow and ran his fingers lightly across the twine, eyes peering through the heavy foliage. He did not sense any orcs, nor heard the raucous noise of their trampling. The silence with which the intruder moved set Legolas on guard, yet he merely waited as a shape eventually glided between two trees into the open. The figure stopped short, blinking for a moment before a grin cracked his dirty face.

“Have you foresight you forgot to mention? Since I did not send word of my coming.”

Legolas’s mouth turned up. “Aragorn, _mae govannen_.” He stepped forward and clasped the Ranger’s arm. It had been over a year since they last met, as both were burdened with leadership regarding their respective peoples. That Aragorn was here now, without the presence of the Grey Company, was certainly curious.

“What are you doing here?” Legolas asked. He hoped his friend did not come bearing ill tidings, though it would not be surprising, considering the age they lived in.

“I felt a visit was long overdue.” Aragorn tilted his head as he appraised Legolas. “But it seems I’ve come all this way only to find you leaving.”

Legolas frowned. “Aye, the timing is poor.” He briefly considered turning back with Aragorn, but could not do so in good conscience. Despite the lack of evidence that some sentient evil was behind the mysterious deaths, he could not shake the feeling that something was terribly amiss in the wood.

“Where are you off to that demands your attention?”

Legolas’s mouth quirked. “Nowhere either of our fathers would approve of.”

Aragorn arched a brow. “I have not been under the rule of Lord Elrond’s house in many years. So perhaps in this, you are the one who needs a chaperone.” He shifted his position, symbolically turning his back on his previous destination of the Elven-halls.

Legolas shot the man a mock glower. “You do not even know where I’m headed.”

Aragorn gestured for Legolas to lead the way. “Then enlighten me.”

They fell into step automatically. For all of Legolas’s long years, his time knowing Aragorn was markedly short, yet he could not say when their friendship had become one of complete, unmitigated trust and loyalty. There were no requests, no explanations between them, only the willing decision to walk into danger together as they had done numerous times in the past. Neither was the type to shy away from trouble. Legolas had fought to defend Mirkwood under the shadow's influence for over a thousand years. He could have easily succumbed to the isolationist thinking of his father, concerned only with their own borders, but being on the front lines for so long had not taught him to retreat; it had taught him not to wait for the enemy to close in on them. Aragorn's fight, while often against physical enemies, was also personal. His time was soon coming, and with it the end to the growing darkness—one way or another. And so they fought, knowing that each small victory meant something...somewhere, to someone. One less band of orcs, one less enemy stronghold. Which was why neither of them intended to let some foul creature begin a new reign of terror if they could stop it.

“That is a strange tale,” Aragorn said after Legolas had relayed what the scouts reported. “It is not the time of year for frost to claim lives, though I suppose an anomaly is possible.”

“We shall soon see for ourselves.”

The further they traveled, the darker the forest became. Trees grew twisted, gnarled and contorted trunks bracing clumpy thickets of leaves that blocked out all but specks of sunlight. They passed blackened piles of mulch that oozed a pitch-like sludge—liquefied remains of long-decomposed spiders. The stench of decay hung heavily in the air, assaulting Legolas’s senses with its caustic, burning tang. Dusk was approaching, and though the area no longer contained spider nests, neither elf nor man wanted to camp within twenty yards of the rotting filth.

Eventually they left the compost spots behind, and Legolas found a small grove with several trees nestled so close together they formed a protective wall on one side. The elf gathered stones to construct a fire ring while Aragorn collected kindling. Once a few flames flickered to life, the Ranger sat back to pull some rations out of his pack. Legolas leaned against one of the trees, eyes peeled against the encroaching darkness as the last remnant of daylight was swallowed by night.

The crackle and pop of the fire was the only sound, both travelers well-accustomed to companionable silence. Plumes of smoke wafted up to disappear into the trees, coating the grove with the scent of charred wood, which at least served to dull some of the more acrid odors permeating the forest. Aragorn stretched his neck, resulting in a crack as loud as the kindling.

Legolas angled a half-amused, half-remorseful look his way. “I apologize, _mellon nîn_. You came to Mirkwood anticipating a soft bed, and I've dragged you further from it.”

“If a bed was all I wanted, I wouldn’t have traveled as far as the Woodland Realm for one.” Aragorn gave him a pointed glance. “Nay, truthfully there is a measure of comfort in familiarity.”

“Sleeping on the cold hard ground?”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “No. Following you on a misadventure.”

Legolas crossed his arms. “A bit premature to cast such despondent predictions on this trip. Besides, if we are keeping count, I believe more often than not it is _you_ leading us into danger.”

Aragorn let out a muted laugh, ever aware of their surroundings. “Fair point.” He picked up a branch and stoked the fire.

Legolas studied the tight lines around the man’s eyes, grey orbs lit by the wavering flames. “You are troubled.”

“No more so than usual.”

The elf frowned at the dispirited tone. “Aragorn.”

He leaned back with a sigh. “It is foolish, but one day I fear I will miss this: living in the Wild, the freedom to come and go as I choose…when I will send others to investigate danger rather than go myself.” Aragorn lifted his head. “The time is coming when we will no longer hunt together.”

Legolas glanced away. He could not fully imagine the reality of Aragorn's future. Yes, Legolas Thranduilion was Prince of the Woodland Realm, but it was highly unlikely his father's rule would ever end, and so Legolas did not even have to entertain the thought of becoming King of Eryn Lasgalen. What he did have to dwell on was time, which usually mattered little to one whose lifespan extended thousands of years, but therein was the bane when an elf became friends with a man.

He straightened from leaning against the tree. “Those days are not yet upon you, Aragorn.”

“They are approaching.”

“Yes, but your brooding will not hasten—nor delay them. I suspect you came to Mirkwood seeking respite from the burden of your heritage and what is expected of you. So let us focus solely on our venture…” Legolas flashed Aragorn a grin. “Since there is a good chance it will lead us into mortal peril.”

Aragorn smirked. “When you put it that way…” He retrieved his bedroll and lay down, pillowing it under his head. “I think I shall take what rest I can.”

Legolas's lips twitched, and he turned his full attention toward keeping watch. The fire eventually died down, shrouding them in darkness. Without the crackling, Legolas was able to hear faint whispers on the air. They susurrated through the trees like malevolent kisses, caressing the leaves to tease forth shuddering breaths. The elf wrapped his arms about himself, and began to count the minutes until dawn.


	2. Peculiar Puzzles

Legolas and Aragorn made it over the Mountains of Mirkwood and across the Old Forest Road without any trouble. From there they veered toward the western side of the forest, searching for signs of what the elven scouts had reported.

“Perhaps it was a fluke frost,” Aragorn said after a day of fruitless wandering.

“My father would be relieved,” Legolas grumbled.

Aragorn laughed. “And you would be embarrassed to have shown alarm over nothing.”

Legolas shot him a glower, and then stepped up to one of the trees, placing his palm against the coarse bark. This part of the forest was not friendly, having lived in the shadow of Dol Guldur for far too long, and elves had not been able to reclaim the land and mend the tortured spirits. So when Legolas reached out to them, they hissed and spat curses, simultaneously hating the light of the elves and resenting the Firstborn for failing to protect Greenwood from shadow. It tore at Legolas’s heart to hear their ravings, yet he pushed past it, inquiring about strange happenings in the forest. At his question, the trees switched to cruel and capricious laughter, almost giddy with the prospect of blood. Legolas yanked his hand away.

Aragorn frowned. “Legolas?”

He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, attempting to sort through the chaotic babble. “The trees are naturally angry, yet when I asked about the frozen bodies, they became…excited.” Legolas looked up, mouth set in a pensive line as he scanned the surrounding forest. “I have nothing concrete to go on, Aragorn, only a feeling.”

Aragorn studied him for a long moment before slowly nodding. “Then let us continue.”

Legolas gave a grateful smile. Though he had intended to make this journey on his own, he was glad now of his friend’s company and support.

They continued their southwest course for another hour before Legolas pulled up short and turned his head sharply at the sound of thrashing branches. He caught Aragorn’s gaze and nodded left. The Ranger’s hand settled on the hilt of his sheathed sword while Legolas unslung his bow and fingered the fletching of an arrow. Together they moved forward, stepping lightly over dead leaves and moss. Several yards ahead, twigs snapped, followed by a low grunt. Legolas did not nock his arrow, only because he had not sensed orcs, and was willing to be more cautious in this instance.

As he and Aragorn stepped around a large oak, they spotted a burly figure squatting on the ground, back to them. He appeared to be sifting through a tangle of broken bramble, muttering under his breath. It was then Legolas recognized a trapper’s snare. Aragorn must have noticed as well, for he halted his approach. Legolas did the same.

“Hail, friend,” the Ranger called.

The man spun around so quickly he lost his balance and reeled back against a tree. A hunter’s knife gleamed in his hand, which he swiftly raised as he lumbered to his feet.

Aragorn held one palm up, keeping his other close to, though no longer touching his sword. “I apologize for startling you. Please, we mean you no harm.”

The man shifted his weight in rhythm with the flicking of his gaze between them, eyes narrowing. “No one in this forsaken forest means no harm.”

Legolas bristled. “Does that include yourself?”

Aragorn shot him a slightly irked look before turning back to the trapper. “I am Strider, and this is Legolas. We heard tell of strange animal deaths and came to investigate.” He paused to consider the man. “Perhaps you’ve seen something in your line of work?”

The trapper continued to eye them warily, and did not release his knife, though he straightened into a less defensive posture. “Why would you trouble yourselves with such things?”

“Someone should.”

The trapper snorted. “More like you would seek to capitalize on it one way or another. Or perhaps the dark sorcery is yours to begin with.”

Aragorn ignored the jab. “What makes you think it’s sorcery?”

“Animals do not turn to blocks of ice unless they have been buried in a snowstorm.” The man spread his arms to encompass the brown and olive greens of the forest, devoid of white or frost.

“We heard stories, but have yet to see any for ourselves,” Aragorn continued, finally relaxing his guard and dropping his arms to his sides. Legolas let him lead the questioning while he kept a vigilant watch over the area, in case the trapper had friends who might surprise them.

At Aragorn’s ease, the man too gave up his hostile mien and shifted slightly to resume his work, cutting bramble away to get at his prize: a weasel that had apparently died of fright after prolonged thrashing in the snare. Legolas’s jaw tightened; he did not appreciate some of men’s more cruel methods of hunting.

“I found a bear last week,” the trapper said. “Thought it an oddly shaped rock until I got closer.” He paused to throw them a suspicious look once more.

“Where?” Aragorn asked.

After a long moment of deliberation, the trapper thrust his chin south. “A mile from here, fifty yards east of a giant spruce split in two. Probably thawed and rotted away by now.”

“Still, it warrants a look,” Aragorn said casually. “Thank you.”

The man shrugged as he gathered up his catch, stuffed it in a sack, and slapped it over his shoulder. “You won’t find nothin’ but trouble if you keep this course,” he grumbled.

Legolas’s eyes narrowed on him. “Why do you hunt here if the forest frightens you?”

The trapper’s mouth curled into a sneer. “I got mouths to feed. It’s either this or become a mercenary. Both are likely to end poorly. As is everyone’s lot in this age.” With that, he shuffled off, leaving them in the forest alone.

Legolas pursed his lips. He did not relish the thought of finding a halfway decomposed bear. Still, it was the only lead they had. He turned to Aragorn, who was frowning at the ground.

“What is it?”

The Ranger looked up and rolled his shoulder. “Nothing.” He set off in the direction the trapper had indicated. Legolas followed, knowing Aragorn would share his troubled thoughts when he was ready.

The cloven spruce was not difficult to spot—one half of the tree lay across the ground, having crushed every bush and younger tree in its path, allowing for a patch of sunlight to rain down upon this part of the forest, its wide beam foggy with floating mites. The other half of the trunk remained upright, jagged splinters splayed like the ridges of a pinecone. From there, they turned east and paced fifty yards, eyes sweeping across the ground.

“Here,” Aragorn finally said, stepping left and wading between a copse of thorny briars. On the other side lay what looked like an oddly shaped rock. Legolas moved around it, brows lifting as he saw it was in fact a bear, grayish blue like granite. It lay on one side, cheek smashed against the dirt, muzzle open wide in a frozen roar. Also strange was the lack of decay. There was no sign of rot or maggots, and the carcass had been here for at least a week, according to the trapper.

Aragorn knelt on one knee next to the bear, examining it closely. Tentatively, he reached out and poked the shoulder. “It is still cold.”

Legolas tilted his head. “Perhaps it is some disease that even the carrion eaters will not touch.”

“That would not bode well for us.” Aragorn’s attention caught on something, and he shifted forward to feel along the bear's right leg. “This bone appears to have been crushed.”

Legolas scanned the ground, but could find no rock or heavy object that might explain such an injury. “There are not many things strong enough to harm a bear,” he said thoughtfully, even as he noted the lack of blood and other injuries. It was a peculiar puzzle.

Aragorn finally stood, brow furrowed. “I see no signs of another creature.”

“At least not a ground one.”

The Ranger inclined his head in concession. Even so, spiders did not kill in this manner, nor were there any signs of nests nearby.

Aragorn tucked a fist under his chin. “The weather is not harsh enough to keep the carcass colder than the area around it for several days like this.”

Legolas stepped closer, prodding with his senses. A ghost of a shadow lingered on the corpse, barely noticeable if he hadn’t been concentrating. Unfortunately, it was not enough to give him a clear sense of what they might be facing.

“Perhaps it is time we visit one of the villages bordering the forest,” he said reluctantly. Not all men viewed elves in a friendly manner, but since some humans had also fallen victim to this ‘sickness,’ they may be able to provide more information.

“Agreed,” Aragorn said.

As they walked, Legolas roved his gaze warily over the forest. Shadows were stirring. Leaf-shaped shades clustered about the mulch-laden floor, fluttering as though at the behest of a soft, caressing breeze. Yet there was no wind. The trees were still, silent. Only the shadows moved, slithering as if they possessed some sentient, independent will. They flexed and curled, tendrils snaking across the ground, talons digging into rock and soil to take root. Here, where darkness lay heavily, the shadows whispered and plotted.

A chill raced up Legolas’s spine, and he halted abruptly, the sibilant murmurs brushing across his mind. Aragorn had only gone two more steps before noticing, and he immediately stiffened.

“What is it?” he asked in a hushed voice, returning to Legolas’s shoulder, his own eyes scanning the woods.

Legolas focused on categorizing the feelings into words, fighting against the dark assault to his senses. “ _Helka lumbule,_ ” he uttered in Quenya, having no other way to describe the icy, heavy shadow emanating through the forest. Pulling his shoulders back, he strode toward the source.

Legolas wove between trees, leaping lightly over roots and hollows until he came to a small open space and stopped short. Laying face up on the ground, one arm reaching up as though grasping for help, was a young human, perhaps of fifteen years. His rigid position looked odd, and he made no sound when Legolas arrived. The boy’s skin had a blue tinge, his eyes wide open and sightless, glacial orbs frozen in an expression of terror.

Aragorn’s footsteps caught up, and he drew to a stop, gaze immediately latching onto the boy. After a moment of stunned surprise, he moved forward as though to help.

“He is dead,” Legolas said hollowly. The death was fresh too, for unlike the bear, the elf could feel the darkness radiating from the boy.

Aragorn bent down anyway to touch him, immediately recoiling. “He is like ice.”

“This is foul magic, Aragorn.” Legolas swept his gaze along the trees, unsure exactly how long the body had been there, and whether the entity responsible was still in the area.

“There is no sign of struggle,” the Ranger said. “Except…” His hand drifted to hover over the boy’s face, young, smooth features revealing the fear and agony he must have experienced. Aragorn rested his hand over those eyes as though to close them, but they were too frozen. “What are you doing out here alone?” he murmured, and rolled his shoulder as though to slough off a chill.

Legolas shifted his weight in trepidation. He did not feel cold as mortals did, but he sensed it in this place, a frigid foreboding. “We should not linger.”

Aragorn removed his pack and dug out the blanket, which he unfolded and draped over the boy’s lithe frame. He had to force the extended arm down with a creak and snap that made the man wince. “Perhaps he belongs to a village not far from here. We should return him, as he is likely missed.”

Legolas did not protest as Aragorn lifted the stiff body into his arms. The Ranger gave a sharp shudder at the icy contact. Legolas almost offered to bear the boy instead, but the traces of evil upon him were more revolting than the cold. Aragorn seemed to understand anyway.

They moved out, heading west toward the edge of Mirkwood. Legolas carried his bow in hand once more, for he was now certain the mystery was no disease, least not in the traditional sense. Something was brewing in the forest.


	3. Ghost Stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a linguist when it comes to the elvish languages, so please forgive me if I’ve made any mistakes. Also for the sake of flow and aesthetic purposes, I won’t be including direct translations, but have provided context clues around elvish phrases so their meanings can be understood.

The village Carrow stood not even thirty yards from the edge of the forest. Despite the dark rumors that shrouded the wood, hunting and trapping was a significant source of livelihood for the people brave enough to live so close—or too afraid to leave the only home they knew.

Aragorn bore the wrapped body up to the edge of the village where a man chopping wood suddenly stepped away from his pile, axe raised, expression full of mistrust and wariness. He had a weathered face framed by a thick beard, save for a gap on the left side of his jaw where an old scar disrupted the natural pattern of facial growth. Aragorn slowed to a stop with seven feet between them.

“Turn back now,” the man demanded roughly. “We do not want your dead.”

“My friend and I found this boy in the woods. If he was missing from this village, we only wish to return him to his family.”

The man’s face blanched, which Aragorn interpreted as confirmation that someone had in fact been missing. He lowered the boy to the ground, and then took several steps back. Cautiously, the villager moved forward and lifted the corner of the blanket covering the lad’s face. He quickly recoiled in horror before his mouth tightened.

“It’s Kain.” He narrowed his eyes at Aragorn and Legolas. “Who are you?”

“I am Strider and this is Legolas,” Aragorn replied amicably. He was used to open hostility from most people. More often than not it was borne of fear rather than pure hatred. “We are sorry for your loss.” He nodded to Kain, eager to ask the circumstances that might have brought the boy into the woods, but knowing he needed to tread carefully.

A muscle in the man’s jaw ticked, but after a long moment, he nodded in a more cordial greeting. “I am Derreth. Thank you for returning him. When he was not seen this morning, I had hoped…” He glanced away.

Aragorn decided to press gently. “It was quite a shock, discovering him…like that.”

Derreth dropped his gaze to the covered body. “These are dark times.”

Bending down, Derreth scooped the boy into his arms and turned to enter the village. Aragorn and Legolas silently trailed after him as he carried the boy past single-story huts with shingled roofs and rickety porches. Three blocks down was the village Square, set with stalls and trading wagons. People stopped and stared as Derreth laid the boy on the steps before the great hall, hushed voices rippling outward like disturbed waters. Wide, fearful eyes darted between Kain and the two strangers in their midst.

“Black magic!” someone shouted, silencing the murmurs. “ _Elf_ magic.”

Aragorn searched for the owner of the voice, but the crowd was thick, and only cowards were brave when cloaked in anonymity.

“The dark elves will steal our children!” the man continued. “And then they will weave their enchantments until we are all either slaves or mounted on their walls!”

“ _Dôl gîn lost,_ ” Legolas muttered.

While Aragorn agreed the village idiot had an empty head, the man was rousing the mass by preying on their fears, and Aragorn did not want to have to fight any of them, even in self-defense.

“We are here to help!” he shouted over the growing din. “Other villages have lost loved ones in this manner.”

“The elves will not let a new evil in Mirkwood go unchallenged,” Legolas added.

“No, you would let your sorcery reign supreme,” another voice spat.

Aragorn’s hand drifted toward his sword, eyes flicking back and forth in case someone decided to draw a weapon. The Ranger also saw Legolas’s fingers twitching with the urge to string his bow.

“The elves are trying to fight back the shadow of Mirkwood,” Aragorn insisted.

“Bah!” a third voice exclaimed. This was getting out of hand, as the horde of bodies began pressing closer. “Either the elves are vile sorcerers, or pitifully inept since the shadow has not lifted in several generations!”

A muscle in Legolas’s jaw ticked, and Aragorn saw that all parties were quickly losing restraint. They were on the verge of a violent confrontation when a scream tore through the air, silencing everyone with the power of its grief. A woman barreled forward and fell to her knees next to the young boy, wrapping her arms around his cold shoulders. For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then Derreth stepped into the middle of the crowd, facing the villagers.

“Should our hospitality greet guests with accusations and bloodshed, then we are no better than the witches you imagine live in the dark forest.” He paused to give several people pointed looks. “For every stranger who comes in peace, let them depart the same.” Derreth glanced at the woman sobbing over the boy, then skewered the gathering with a reprimanding glare. “Tend to your neighbors.” With that, he turned away, motioning for Aragorn and Legolas to follow.

Aragorn eyed the villagers warily, though all seemed cowed by Derreth’s words and let them leave. “Thank you,” he said once they were a block away from the crowd.

Derreth inclined his head. “I do not make excuses, but people are frightened. These deaths…they are unnatural.”

“There have been more?” Legolas asked sharply.

Derreth’s mouth pinched. “Aye, there have been two others.”

“We saw a bear in this condition,” Aragorn said. “Were the others found in the woods as well?”

Derreth came to a stop now that they were far enough away from the rest of the villagers. “Yes, though the first had no business being in the forest at all, just like young Kain. They all went missing during the night.” He paused and added quietly as though to himself, “Whatever could have possessed them…?”

“Do you have any idea what happened?” Aragorn asked.

Derreth shook his head wearily. “Everyone knows better than to venture into the forest alone. There is dark sorcery in that wood.”

“The question is what kind,” Aragorn mused, exchanging a look with Legolas.

“Ghosts,” a creaky voice interjected, and the three of them turned to face an old woman sitting on a porch five feet away. Wisps of white hair poked out from underneath a head scarf like tufts of cobwebs, and her knobby fingers clutched crookedly at the arms of her rocking chair.

“Helga,” Derreth greeted with a slight hint of patronization.

“Ghosts of the Necromancer’s sacrifices,” she continued, flicking her eyes toward the tree line. “The forest is full of them.”

“The Necromancer has not been seen in these parts for many years,” Derreth said patiently, and then covertly nodded to Aragorn and Legolas to keep moving.

“Aye, he was banished,” Legolas put in. Neither he nor Aragorn mentioned the Necromancer’s true identity. No one needed to know how close they had been living to the Dark Lord. The startling revelation could even be the final shock on the poor woman’s heart, who had probably spent her childhood in the dark shadow.

“But he did not take the ghosts with him,” Helga hissed, leaning forward with a creak that was either in the chair or her bones. “And now they are lonely.”

Derreth was shaking his head and trying to direct them to leave, but Aragorn paused. “Lonely?” he repeated. That was a strange way to speak of ghosts.

Helga nodded morosely. “The dead children cry at night. I hear them.” Her chapped lips pursed. “They sound so sad, and remind me of my own grandchildren sometimes. I would go to them but for my bad hip.”

“Thank you, Helga,” Derreth said, lightly clearing his throat.

Aragorn inclined his head toward the old woman and then followed the villager back to where he had been chopping wood. The border of Mirkwood stood not far away, the trees packed close together like paranoid sentries. A curtain of shade separated the realm from the light pouring over the open field.

“You do not believe her?” Legolas inquired.

Derreth shrugged one shoulder. “Everyone here knows the ghost stories. But ghosts do not steal people from their beds.”

Aragorn glanced at Legolas. No, it was more likely a creature was luring people into the woods, but with the sound of children?

“We should stay the night,” he said.

Legolas nodded, turning his gaze back toward the trees, eyes narrowed as though to pierce their secrets.

Derreth picked up his axe. “Do as you will. But if you enter the woods at night and are lost, no one will search for you.”

Aragorn nodded sagely, refraining from pointing out that he did not fear the forest…and that there were many who would in fact come looking for him. But he did not intend to fall victim to a ruse that night, only to watch and hopefully learn what manner of trickery they were dealing with.

* * *

Aragorn and Legolas took up watch on the edge of the village, facing Mirkwood. Activity in Carrow had abruptly ceased with the setting sun as people had locked themselves inside their homes. Not even lanterns were lit, as though the village was afraid to draw attention to itself. At least a waxing moon provided ample illumination for the man and elf who had decided to stay out in the dark.

Aragorn pulled out his pipe and lit it, breathing deeply of the smoked leaves.

“That is not a kingly habit.”

“It is a Chieftain’s habit,” he retorted.

Legolas merely smirked at him. Aragorn let out a billowing puff of smoke in the elf’s direction as a response. Legolas wrinkled his nose and turned his face away.

Tipping his head back, Aragorn gazed at the stars. He had traveled far enough to know the constellations and their positions from the north, south, east, and west. And it was foolish sentimentality that had him favoring their arrangement from the north, a child’s petty disposition in rebellion to the knowledge that one day Aragorn would look upon the stars from Gondor, from a tower high in the city. Closer, perhaps, to the celestial wonders, yet further from their comfort.

“I am selfish,” he said softly, not realizing he had chastised himself out loud.

Legolas glanced over. “What?”

Aragorn sighed. “I am plagued by doubts, _mellon nîn_. If Fate were mine to command, I would stave off the end, choose to endure darkness a little longer simply so I may avoid the task set before me.” He shook his head, angry with himself. He feared the weakness of his bloodline, and in so doing, was weak already.

Legolas did not reply for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with sorrowful understanding. “I have fought against the encroaching shadow for longer than I can remember. I barely recall when my home was Greenwood the Great, and our victories are too few and far between that sometimes it seems as if there is no hope. Still I fight…for an outcome I cannot envision, yet even as I do so, the hope for the end is not without trepidation. The struggle has become my constant bedfellow, and truth be told, I am not sure what I shall do once it is gone.”

He looked over to meet Aragorn’s gaze. “It is not weakness to feel comfortable in what is familiar and known, even if what we favor is not what should be.” Legolas spread one arm to encompass the village as evidence. “Weakness is to lock oneself away and hide within our fears.”

Aragorn’s lips twitched. “You sound like Gandalf.”

Legolas folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t know whether to take that for compliment or insult.”

Aragorn chuckled. “A little of both, I suppose.” He paused, letting the rest of his friend’s words sink in. Aragorn would not run from his destiny; that was never within his plans. Yes, the thought of a new age sometimes frightened him, for it was full of more unknown than the battle looming on the horizon. It tore at his heart that Legolas, an elf, would feel the same. And so Aragorn knew that he would embrace his path, not just to bring an end to the darkness plaguing the peoples of Middle Earth, but for his friends.

“ _Hannon le,_ ” he whispered his thanks.

Legolas gave him the barest of smiles, and then suddenly went rigid. Aragorn jerked into attention, quickly putting out his pipe.

“ _Nad no ennas,_ ” Legolas breathed in alarm, eyes roving the tree line for whatever he’d sensed.

Aragorn followed his gaze. “ _Man cenich?_ ” he asked quietly, having to rely on the elf’s superior eyesight.

Legolas was silent for a beat. “The trees are still, but I feel something moving within the forest.”

They waited, eyes peeled against the darkness. Slowly, a low wail rose up in the distance, a somber keening that sent a shiver down Aragorn’s spine.

Legolas’s eyes narrowed. “That is no child.”

Aragorn strained his ears. Past the chilling crescendoes, he thought he detected a high-pitched, pitiful cry, but he had to agree; the eerie caterwaul did not sound inviting.

“Should we wait for it to show itself, or make the first move?” Legolas asked.

Aragorn scanned the black forest once more. Evil things were often more powerful at night, but if they did not confront this entity now, they might not get a chance during the day. He grabbed a branch from the wood pile and made a torch. Before they could move toward the tree line, however, a scream from inside the village rent the air.

“No, no!”

Aragorn surged toward the desperate cries, Legolas behind him. He nearly barreled into a woman running barefoot through the street. Legolas gripped her elbow to keep her from falling backward.

“What is it?” the elf asked harshly.

“Lena, my daughter,” the woman panted. “She is gone! I woke to find her out of bed.” Her fingers clawed at Legolas’s tunic in her growing panic, and suddenly she stilled as her eyes drifted past them toward Mirkwood. “ _No_.”

Aragorn turned, suddenly realizing the unearthly moaning had ceased. He shot an alarmed look at Legolas, who deftly wrenched free of the woman’s grasp and began moving toward the forest.

“Go back inside,” Aragorn ordered, pivoting on his heel to follow. He caught up to Legolas, who had stopped at the tree line and was bending down to finger something snagged on a crooked twig. It was a tiny patch of white cloth, likely from a nightdress.

“We must hurry,” the elf said, straightening and drawing his bow.

Aragorn unsheathed his sword, and armed with the meager torchlight, they plunged into the treacherous forest.


	4. Fell Hunting

The flames of the torch clung to the wooden stick as though terrified for their life. Shadows ebbed and surged against the orange luminescence as Aragorn and Legolas sprinted through the dark forest. The wood was eerily silent save their hurried footsteps, yet Aragorn felt a chill creeping through the trees. He followed the light tracks left by the small girl, praying they would find her in time.

Legolas skidded to a stop and pulled an arrow from his quiver. A bitter cold wormed its way past Aragorn’s cloak, gnawing its way down to his bones. He hefted his sword, feeling a malice working its magic on the air, which had grown thick with mist. The precious light of the torch wavered under the oppressive frost.

Legolas moved again, slipping between two trees, his arrow nocked and ready. When he and Aragorn staggered into a bare patch of earth, they both froze for a brief instant at the sight that greeted them. A young girl no older than eight stood with her arms tucked tightly against her chest. She shivered violently in her nightgown, breaths puffing out before her. Yet she did not move or scream as a figure emerged from the fog, white as a flurry of snow.

For a moment, Aragorn thought he was looking at a ghost, for its silhouette was haloed in a thin, incandescent aura, but the creature made imprints on the ground as it stalked toward the child. A head of wild and tangled hair sat atop a wizened and shriveled face, lips eaten away, eye sockets containing glowing, opaque orbs. Tatters of gray and filthy rags hung loosely from the emaciated frame, and a bony arm with crooked fingers reached out for the girl.

Legolas loosed his arrow, which struck the apparition in the chest. It shrieked and jerked backward, whipping blazing white eyes toward the elf and man. With an ear-splitting bellow, it grabbed the shaft and ripped the bloodless arrow from its body.

Aragorn leaped forward, swinging his sword. The being danced away from the blade, giving him space to plant himself protectively in front of the child. The thing hissed and took a step forward, but bobbed its head as though wary of the torch. Legolas fired another arrow, this time at the forehead where it thudded dead center. Spindly hands shot up to clutch the shaft protruding from between the eyes, and with a blood-curdling wail, the revenant turned and fled.

Aragorn stared after it for a moment of brief horror before he collected himself and spun to face the girl. Kneeling in front of her, he gently took her by the arms, drawing her terrified gaze to his. “Lena, is it?” he asked in a soothing voice. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Where is Papa?”

“We’ll take you back to him,” Aragorn promised, rising and looking around warily. The night air was still cold, though not freezing as it had been mere moments before.

“But I heard him in the woods,” Lena protested. “I came to find him. Where is he?”

Aragorn stiffened. Had another gone missing in the forest?

Legolas caught his gaze and gave a subtle head shake, “ _Boe gwaem._ ”

Aragorn’s jaw tightened, but he knew Legolas was right—they had to leave. This creature, whatever it was, seemed immune to mortal weapons, though perhaps at least pained by them. And they could not take the child with them to further hunt the woods, nor split up with one taking her back to the village and the other continuing on alone.

The Ranger gave a sharp nod, passed the torch to Legolas, and then scooped the girl into his arms. “Come, little one. Your mother is worried.”

Casting nervous looks over their shoulders, they made haste back to Carrow. A small crowd had gathered in the village streets, woken by the mother’s frantic cries. Derreth jogged forward at their arrival, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Is she…?”

“Unharmed,” Aragorn replied.

The mother pushed her way toward them, eyes red-rimmed and voice raw as she sobbed in relief. Aragorn handed Lena to the woman’s waiting arms, and the crowd of villagers swarmed over them in a protective wave. At least the rabble-rousers from earlier had either stayed indoors or abandoned their prejudice after having a child returned to them safely. Aragorn was only glad another innocent life had not been lost.

“She said she heard her father in the woods,” Legolas explained to Derreth. “I am sorry, but we could not search for him.”

Derreth quirked a confused brow. “Her father? No, he is not here. He left two days ago to trade in Mungdar and is not due back until next week.”

Aragorn frowned. “Perhaps she had a dream she mistook for waking.”

“I would venture it was a malicious dream,” Legolas said. “Since she is now the fourth to be driven into the woods.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Too many to be coincidence.” He thought back to the cry he’d heard on the wind before discovering the missing child. “Perhaps she did hear her father’s voice,” he said slowly. “Helga said the cries in the night reminded her of her grandchildren, and she would go to them if she were able.”

Legolas’s eyes narrowed. “A trick, then, to lure people into the forest.”

Derreth glanced between them. “But that would mean there is something out there, hunting us… What did you see?”

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a look. “I am not sure,” the Ranger replied carefully. “Some evil creature.”

Derreth’s shoulders stiffened. “Are you saying the ghosts are real?”

“This was no phantom,” Legolas interjected. “I hit it with two arrows, though it seemed unfazed by them.”

Aragorn braced a fist under his chin in speculative thought. “It had the appearance of death though.” He shuddered slightly at the memory of that fell aura. Even Legolas looked perturbed by the encounter.

“Well,” Aragorn said, dropping his arm. “We now have a place to track it from.”

Legolas nodded, mouth set in a grim line, but expression resolute.

Derreth shifted his weight awkwardly. “I’m afraid there aren’t any men who would go with you…”

Aragorn nodded in understanding. These people were not his to command, though if his destiny was ever fully realized, one day they would be. Here in this moment, however, he was not King of Gondor or Arnor, he was merely Strider.

He turned to Legolas. “Let us rest, for in the morning we hunt.”

 

* * *

Morning came swiftly, but alas not the sun. Instead, a dreary blanket of grey wrapped the sky and bleached the earth of warm, golden rays. Legolas stood facing Mirkwood, the forest less black than the night before, but no less foreboding. He had no name for the creature they’d encountered, only the knowledge that it was evil. He also recognized its malevolent aura as the thing responsible for the frozen animals and the boy, Kain. Legolas didn’t know how or why, but the more troubling question was how to stop it.

Aragorn lit two torches, passing one to him. Fire at least seemed to have deterred the entity last night. Without preamble, the two headed into the woods and back to the place they had found the human child, where the strange revenant had shown its twisted face.

“Ghosts do not leave tracks,” Legolas said as he studied the imprints in the soil.

“All the better for us,” Aragorn replied. He moved forward to begin trailing the footprints that led deeper into the forest. Legolas kept his senses sharply tuned for any disturbance, though with the ever-present shadow that coated Mirkwood with its stain, it would be difficult to detect anything until they drew close.

The trees whispered among themselves, cursing the torch fire that came within feet of them. They had grown used to the frost seeping through the forest, even though it was still early autumn. Legolas spotted antlers poking up from the thicket, and placed a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder to signal a silent stop. Easing forward, Legolas pulled the shrubbery apart, revealing a deer laying on its side, legs stretched stiffly as though it had frozen standing up and then fallen over. They were getting close.

The sudden burst of icy air barely gave Legolas enough time to shout a warning to Aragorn before the rotting creature leaped seemingly out of nowhere. It barreled into the Ranger knocking him to the ground. He managed to keep hold of both his sword and torch, and swiped the fire at the being’s face. It shrieked and jumped backward.

Legolas wanted to draw his bow, but decided keeping his torch would be more useful. After all, his arrows had not worked for the normal kill shots, so he would have to discover what else may be this monster’s weakness. If it had any. He swallowed his revulsion at the sight of the shade. Its sunken cheeks and marble eyes made it look as though it had climbed out of a cold, watery grave. There was a hole in the middle of its forehead where Legolas had shot it last night, obviously to no avail.

Aragorn got to his feet and sidestepped, attempting to hem the creature between them. It whipped its head back and forth sharply enough that Legolas heard the snapping of vertebrae. With a raging screech, a gust of wind exploded around them, bending the torch flames and almost extinguishing them. In the brief moment where they wavered to thin tongues, the revenant lunged toward Legolas.

He danced to the side, drawing one of his twin knives and slashing at the shade’s back as it barreled past him. Steel sliced through fabric and grated against bone, as though there was hardly any flesh on the creature. It screamed anyway, staggering into a tree.

Legolas and Aragorn moved in, brandishing their torches. The fell monster hissed and tried to dart away, but Aragorn swung his sword at its neck. The shriveled head with cobweb hair flew a few feet through the air and bounced across the ground. The rest of the body juddered before crumpling.

The elf and man stared at the corpse for a long moment, half-believing decapitation wasn’t quite enough to kill it. When a hand suddenly twitched, gaunt fingers digging into the soil for purchase as though it meant to crawl toward its head, Legolas dropped his torch toward the body, igniting it in flames. Aragorn moved and did the same to the head. A shrill caterwaul went up as the creature writhed and burned, and Legolas flinched from its piercing screech.

After several moments, the wail subsided, and the body fell still. The fire died down to a simmer, having consumed all the cloth and flesh available, leaving only a charred lump.

Legolas finally allowed himself a breath of relief. It was done.

Aragorn nudged the body with the toe of his boot. “The inhabitants of Carrow will be thankful to hear no more people should go missing in the night. Still, I wonder where it came from. Such dark magic seems like something attributed to the Necromancer, but we both know it wasn’t him.”

Legolas nodded absently. He had no answers, nor did he think they were likely to find any. The fortress of Dol Guldur had been cleared out decades ago, so it was unlikely something such as this had been hiding there all this time, only to venture out now. Then again, with Sauron’s power in the east growing stronger, many foul things were rising to haunt Middle Earth.

Aragorn straightened. “Now you can tell your father your suspicions were not unfounded.”

Legolas let out a half-snort. No one said to Thranduil, ‘I told you so.’ Still, Legolas was glad he had not ignored his instincts. He and Aragorn buried the remains with what rocks they could find, and then headed back toward the village. Their hunting of the creature had taken them deep into the forest, but they should have been able to make it out in time for dusk.

They had not gone far, however, before a thick fog rolled in, blanketing the ground and towering foliage until visibility was almost nothing. Legolas felt as though he was wading through a bog. Even the trees had fallen eerily silent under the oppressive weight. Navigating the haze was slowing them down considerably, almost as if the forest intended to keep them here after dark. The torches were doing little to part the white sea; as it was, Legolas could only see his like a muted lantern light encased in fogged glass.

“Aragorn…” he turned and stopped short when he could not spot the Ranger. “Aragorn?” Legolas spun, whipping his torch through the mist. The man had been right next to him! Was he now ahead or behind? Legolas squinted as he tried to pierce the heavy veil in search of a faint bob of light, but could see nothing, only an endless, opaque shroud.

“Aragorn!”

“ _Legolas!_ ”

The elf turned toward the cry, which sounded much too far away. How could Aragorn have gotten so far ahead? And turned around, for the voice was coming from the south, off their path. Legolas began moving toward it, even as a chill crept into his heart. Something wasn’t right; some evil stirred on the wind. Yet he could not place it…not orcs, or spiders.

“ _Legolas!_ ” The plea was sounding desperate now, and Legolas quickened his pace. _Ai, adan, where are you?_ How could the Prince of Mirkwood have lost one human?

Just when he thought he’d reached where Aragorn had been calling from, the temperature plummeted, and the fog whisked away with a blast of air that slapped Legolas in the face and smothered his torch. He spun around, frantic breaths puffing out in billowing white plumes. A bitter chill crept across his skin, sending his senses reeling from the air of evil permeating the wood. There was no sign of Aragorn.

Legolas paused to attempt relighting his torch, but was distracted by tendrils of white mist snaking through the air toward him. They swirled in and around each other, silhouetting a vague, humanoid shape. Then the amorphous fog surged forward, catching Legolas off guard. A startled yelp escaped his throat as an invisible pressure slammed into his chest and knocked him back against a tree, pinning him. Frigid barbs dug into his sternum, the shock causing his fingers to spasm open, and he distantly heard the clatter of his branch hitting the ground. The air in his lungs froze.

The pressure on his chest held him still as the figure in the haze leaned closer. There was a deep, sucking inhalation, and Legolas felt something deep within him twinge, followed by a cascade of lightheadedness. The warmth in his blood stole away from his extremities to be replaced with ice that clawed through his veins. Numbness settled in. His inner light furled up, retreating to the center of his chest as though drawn into a tight ball. Legolas’s pulse spiked and he willed his arms to move, to fight back. Yet he could not feel them. Despite his alarm, his breaths came slower, fading to shallow puffs of white on his lips.

The being in the mist gasped in another breath, and the elf’s vision blurred. _Something_ tugged at his core, yanking at his spirit, and in that terrifying moment, Legolas felt the threads of his _fëa_ begin to fray and detach.


	5. Cold Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, meanings for the elvish phrases in this chapter can be deduced from context clues.

Aragorn cursed the mantle of fog wrapping about his shoulders and pervading his nostrils. If he didn’t know any better, he would think it was purposefully trying to smother him. The light of his torch sputtered and choked in a pathetic attempt to defy the heavy moisture in the air. Aragorn uttered several more oaths in three languages. He had already lost Legolas in the mist; to lose the fire would only add insult to injury.

“ _Aragorn!_ ”

Finally, the elf had noticed he was no longer beside him. But where was Legolas now? His voice sounded oddly distorted filtering through the milky brume.

“Here!” Aragorn called back. The elf would have more luck pinpointing his location, so the Ranger decided to stay put.

“ _Aragorn!_ ”

He frowned, waving his torch through the mist. Legolas sounded almost frantic… Aragorn took a step toward the voice, but stopped. There was something else to it, something he couldn’t quite place. And then he recalled their supposition that the creature had been mimicking voices of loved ones in order to lure victims into the forest. The shade was destroyed though, Aragorn was sure of it…

“ _Aragorn!_ ”

His blood ran cold. The revenant may have been able to imitate human voices, but it could not match the pure, musical tenor of an elf. Aragorn took a step away from the voice. As he did, the mist began to swirl and the temperature dropped. A bone-chilling presence drifted toward him.

Aragorn brandished his torch like a sword, and could have sworn he heard a hiss as the mist seemed to recoil. Then he turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, stumbling over rocks and roots concealed in the haze. He had to find Legolas.

The further he ran, the less thick the murk became, nor did he feel the same deathly iciness. Even so, he could barely see past the blurred outlines of trees.

“ _Legolas!_ ”

Aragorn skidded to a stop in stunned surprise at the sound of his own voice echoing through the wood. It was coming from just somewhere to his left. A feeling of dread wormed through his heart, and he immediately bolted toward it. The air was growing frosty once more, but at least that meant the fog was thinning, and Aragorn could increase his speed without worry of tripping and twisting an ankle.

The parody of his voice was frightening enough, but a new terror jolted through him when it silenced. Had the creature found its prey?

There was a clear section up ahead, and Aragorn barreled into it, coming to a staggered stop. His heart dropped into his stomach at the sight of Legolas six yards away, back pressed against a tree. Glistering waves of white and pale blue light were wafting from the elf to converge at a point directly in front of him. Whorls of mist writhed and shifted with an unearthly glow, and Aragorn suddenly noticed the silhouette of a hand pressing against Legolas’s chest.

The nearly invisible specter sucked in a sharp breath, slurping up the elf’s light and devouring it. With each inhale, the tendrils of fog began to coalesce and solidify. Soon there was a corporeal arm holding Legolas in place, as pale and desiccated as the creature they had killed earlier that day.

Aragorn whipped out his knife and threw it. The blade whipped end over end through the air before slicing through the newly formed arm and severing it from the rest of the swirling mist. The phantasm screamed and jerked back as the stumpy hand thudded on the ground. Legolas sagged against the tree, the ripples of light spilling off him shimmering out.

Aragorn charged forward with his torch, which had miraculously stayed burning in this icy patch. A burst of wind tried to snuff it out, but he thrust the branch into the mist, and the fell entity screeched again, whooshing around to attack from behind. In the split moment between heartbeats, Aragorn knew he stood little chance against the specter with the torch’s faltering flames. But the Valar must have been watching, for as the shade glided toward him, it passed into a stray shard of sunlight lancing through a tiny gap in the forest canopy now that it was no longer clouded by fog. The apparition shrieked, and with a whirl of icy wind, gusted away.

Aragorn stood half-bowed, panting raggedly for a long moment as though to be sure the wraith had truly gone. When the flames of his torch crackled into full life once more, he allowed himself a measure of relief, which was short-lived as he spun toward Legolas, who had slumped down against the tree. The elf’s pale complexion had a blue sheen like porcelain, his eyes half-lidded and staring into space.

_No._

Aragorn dropped to his knees in front of Legolas and cupped the elf’s jaw, pressing two fingers against the hollow beneath his chin. He nearly recoiled at the frozen flesh.

“ _Saes, mellon nîn, echuio!_ ” he pleaded for his friend to wake. Just as Aragorn felt a sluggish throb beneath his touch, Legolas slowly blinked.

“Aragorn?”

The Ranger tilted the elf’s chin up to study his eyes, which were not focusing correctly. And he was too cold. Aragorn did a quick, cursory search for other injuries, not finding any. He craned his neck around, scanning the forest. They needed to get out of here, but between the fog and mad dash, Aragorn had lost his bearings.

“ _Mi van me?_ ” Legolas asked, voice slightly slurred.

Aragorn’s chest tightened with worry at his friend’s disorientation. “We’re in Mirkwood, south of the Old Forest Road. Do you remember?”

Legolas squinted as though trying to wade through a sea of clouded thoughts. He shivered then, a violent jerk that took him off guard, and he looked up with bewildered eyes. “Aragorn, I feel…cold.”

Aragorn rammed the base of his torch between some exposed roots, bracing it upright next to Legolas. They would not have time to try finding their way out of the woods; he needed to get the elf warm now. But they were currently vulnerable should that creature—or creatures—decide to return. He caught sight of the shaft of sunlight, narrow as it was, and followed it up to the canopy of branches. With a grim head shake, Aragorn picked up his sword and climbed into the tree where he began hacking at some of the lower branches. Though he could not hear trees speak, he was sure he was making no friends this day.

As some of the foliage dropped to the ground, more rays of sunlight broke through, dusty ocher beams that covered the ground in splotches of shadows. Aragorn winced as a branch crashed only two feet from where Legolas sat.

The elf merely blinked, his reflexes much too delayed. “ _Man cerig?_ ”

What did it look like he was doing? Aragorn dropped back to the ground. “That should be enough light to keep the wraiths away.” The area was by no means brightly lit, but if a sliver of sun could force the mist to flee, then a smattering of spots would have to do. Now he turned his attention to the next important task: warming up the elf. An image of the boy they’d found in the woods flashed through Aragorn’s mind, but he shoved it down before it could paralyze him with fear.

He began gathering stones and placed them in a large, oval fire ring, needing both intense heat and a line of defense. Then he chopped up the branches he had felled and took his flint to them. The chert cast sparks onto the kindling, which soon started smoking, suffusing the clearing with the scent of charred leaves. Flames began to lick at the bottom of the wood, curling their way up and around into a blossoming fire. It cast an orange glow over Legolas’s ghostly features.

Aragorn pulled his pack from his shoulder and rifled through its contents for his water pouch and a tin mug. He poured some liquid into the cup and set it just inside the fire ring to warm. Then he pulled out his blanket and draped it across Legolas, whose eyelids were drifting shut.

“No, you must stay awake,” Aragorn said firmly, placing his hand on the side of the elf’s face to draw his attention. He still felt like ice, despite the brush of warmth wafting over from the torch and newly lit fire. The cold, however, seemed to be emanating from deep within the elf’s core, a dark, unyielding shadow. For all of his training as a healer, Aragorn did not know how to treat fell magic such as this. He could only treat the symptoms and hope Legolas’s elven-healing would aid his recovery.

“ _Tolo na naur,_ ” Aragorn instructed, directing Legolas closer to the fire. He drew the elf back against his chest to share some of his own warmth, and had to stifle a shudder at the contact. The fact that Legolas was pliable for all this also worried Aragorn greatly. He reached for the warmed cup and lifted it to blue lips. “Drink.”

Legolas sipped slowly, and by the time the cup had emptied, his head had lolled to the side. His limbs were still so rigid like ice that it took Aragorn a moment to realize he had finally lost consciousness. The Ranger tried to stir the elf back to waking, but to no avail. He could only hope rest would do some good, for he was out of options, stranded as they were.

With one arm bracing Legolas against him, Aragorn poured more water into the cup and set it near the fire to be ready for when Legolas woke again. Because he _would_. And in the meantime, Aragorn willed the warmth of the fire and his own body heat to seep into the elf and melt whatever foul curse had sunk its teeth into him. The forest was silent; even the shadows around them barely moved. Aragorn watched and listened, eyes and ears attuned to his surroundings, while one hand rested against Legolas’s throat to keep count of the languid, faltering pulse.

 

* * *

Aragorn had a lot of time to consider what manner of fell entity they were dealing with while Legolas slept. They were shades after all, perhaps even with a ring of truth from Helga’s ghost stories. But that some were amorphous specters and another was flesh and bone seemed significant. Aragorn had his suspicions, but wanted to confer with Legolas…if he would recover. Aragorn held onto a glimmer of hope though, for as the hours wore on, the chill that had been trying to soak into him from holding Legolas began to abate. Eventually it no longer felt as though he was bracing a block of ice.

Just when he was about to start formulating a plan should they be stranded in the woods after dark, Aragorn felt a tremor run through the elf. He shifted to peer down at the pale face, catching rapid eye movement beneath closed lids.

“Legolas? _Lasto beth_ _nîn, tolo dan, mellon nîn,_ ” Aragorn said softly, beseeching his friend to hear his voice and come back.

There was a slight creasing of the brow, and then eyelids fluttered to give way to tired blue irises. Legolas blinked up at him. “Aragorn?” Upon taking stock of his position, Legolas shifted as though to sit up. Aragorn let him, though he kept a firm grip on the elf’s shoulders should he sway.

Legolas scooted around so he was sitting next to Aragorn, and swept his gaze around the forest, eyes sharpening once more.

Aragorn rocked back in relief. “Do not do that again,” he said, giving Legolas’s shoulder a stern squeeze.

Legolas frowned, but a moment later, haunted understanding filled his eyes. He reached a hand up to settle over his heart. “ _Ai, Elbereth._ ” A shiver wracked his frame, and Aragorn quickly handed him the warm mug. Legolas drank slowly, biding his time so he could gather his thoughts. Aragorn did not press, but stoked the fire and waited.

“It was a wraith,” Legolas said at last.

Aragorn nodded. “I guessed as much.”

Legolas’s lips thinned. “But unlike any I have ever seen. When it…” His mouth twisted in consternation. “I could not fight it. I believe it meant to devour my _fëa_.”

Aragorn’s brows knitted together as he recalled the horrifying scene, and the waves of light being drawn away from the elf. “It seems these evil spirits have found a way to retake physical form. The one attacking you was becoming solid as it consumed your light.” He paused. Though he had interrupted the shade before it could finish, Aragorn was terrified he had been too late.

Legolas gave him a look of understanding. “I am fine, Aragorn.” The Ranger arched a dubious brow, to which the elf amended, “Alright, I will be fine. For now, we must determine what to do about these wraiths.”

“Unfortunately, we do not know how many there are.” Aragorn stood and began to stretch his muscles. “At least two, for before I found you I heard your voice calling from the opposite direction, though lucky for me a wraith cannot mimic an elf’s true voice.”

Legolas briefly closed his eyes. “I am a fool. I heard your call and thought you in trouble, thus running straight into the snare.”

“It was not your fault, _mellon nîn_. I heard that one too, and I assure you it sounded quite convincing.”

Legolas did not seem appeased. There was still a breath of shadow lingering on him, though nothing that seemed to be actively feeding upon his spirit. They needed to get out of Mirkwood though, back into unimpeded sunlight at the least, and to Rivendell preferably where Lord Elrond’s elvish medicine could do more than Aragorn could.

“There must be a burial ground in the forest,” the elf spoke again. “Perhaps even the location of the sacrifices the old woman mentioned.” With a deep breath, Legolas pushed himself to his feet. “We must burn it.”

Aragorn scrutinized the determined set of his friend’s shoulders. “We should come back for that.”

Legolas shook his head. “The more lives these wraiths devour to feed their own, the more powerful they will become. As you said, we do not know their number, and should strike before they can become an army.”

Aragorn rubbed the back of his neck. The elf’s logic was both sound and flawed, for the incorporeal mists seemed just as dangerous as the physical wraiths. But the revenants would continue to lure victims into the woods, and when humans could not be found, the specters obviously gained strength from animal spirits as well.

“There is no one who even knows the location of such a burial ground,” Aragorn countered. “It could take us weeks to search the forest.”

Legolas canted his head, gaze going distant with thought. After a moment, he stepped forward and pressed a palm to the trunk of the tree Aragorn had disfigured. Slowly, the elf’s mouth curved into a grim smile. “I know who will gladly lead us to it.”

Aragorn frowned. “I thought the trees would not help a Wood-elf.”

“Help? Nay.” Legolas’s eyes darkened. “But they will direct us to our destination in the hopes of seeing us fail.”

Aragorn rolled his shoulder, unsure whether to find that mildly reassuring, or immensely disturbing.

Legolas turned to face him seriously, gaze questioning. Aragorn held back a defeated sigh.

“Stubborn elf,” he muttered, bending down to repack his supplies. “Grab four branches for torches. They will make more effective weapons than steel should we encounter the mist.” _Make that when._

With a nod, Legolas turned to see it done. He moved a bit stiffly, studying broken boughs for a long time before finally picking one.

Aragorn’s brow furrowed as he cast furtive glances at the elf. “You are sulking,” he chided.

Legolas looked over in dismay. “I am not.”

Aragorn held back an eye roll. “What was your choice? You thought me in danger, and we had believed the only shade destroyed.”

“You were not fooled.”

Aragorn snorted. “Do you not recall when an orc I thought I’d killed played dead until I was close enough for it to stab me in the leg? Had you not been quick with the bow, it would have gutted me as well.”

“That was an uncommonly intelligent orc.”

“And these are uncommonly intelligent wraiths.”

Legolas lifted his gaze to the treetops. After a moment, he returned to gathering branches, more focused on the task. He paused. “I suppose this makes us even now.”

Aragorn arched a brow.

Legolas gave a slim smile in return. “I have led us into misadventure after all.”

Despite himself, Aragorn returned the faint grin. A white hue was still leeching the color from Legolas’s pallor, but the return of his sense of humor did wonders for Aragorn’s own state of worry. “It would hardly be exciting without a brush with near-death.”

“True.” Legolas finished picking wood suitable for torches.

Aragorn shook his head to himself. They had both faced death before, making a rather unhealthy habit of needing to save each other from it multiple times. It was easy to jest after they had survived relatively unscathed, but in this moment, Aragorn could not quiet the tiny whisper of doubt in the back of his mind; they had come too close to death again. And were now marching right back out to face it once more.


	6. Fire and Ice

According to the trees, the wraiths were concentrated in an area not far from Legolas and Aragorn’s current position. They would have to move quickly, for sunset was fast approaching and both knew the shades’ power would increase once daylight disappeared. It was perhaps foolish to cut it so close, but they would not have made it back to Carrow before dusk anyway. Once Legolas had regained his strength, he’d climbed a tree to reorient himself on their whereabouts, and discovered they had gotten horribly turned around in the fog, and were much deeper south than either had realized. Since they would likely be attacked should they attempt to flee the wood after dark, it seemed only logical to meet the enemy head-on instead.

It felt strange to carry a torch in each hand rather than his favored bow, but the blazing fires offered their own measure of comfort. The heat radiating off them to prickle across Legolas’s face and neck helped chase away the lingering chill that still clung to him. He could feel the frayed edges of his spirit like the strain of pulled tendons. It left a sharp pang deep within his being, a wound he found rather unsettling, but he refused to let it show. He could worry about it after they had banished the wraiths.

The trees whispered and cackled ecstatically, egging the elf and man toward their doom. Fog drifted on the periphery, lurking, waiting. Legolas eyed it warily, but could not determine whether the mist was intentionally biding its time, or whether the torches were keeping it at bay. His body gave an involuntary shudder at the proximity. Aragorn cast him a concerned look, but didn’t comment. They had come too far to turn back now.

Suddenly the trees’ voices cut off, and with the silence came a stirring of bitter wind. The torches flickered against it. Legolas glanced up toward the sky, but it was completely blocked out by intersecting branches and clustered leaves draped in woolly cobwebs. He and Aragorn found themselves standing shin-deep in thick undergrowth. In four corners, granite obelisks protruded from the brush, and in the center of them all, almost completely covered in dark ivy, stood a stone altar. The vines were like pitch-black, and the longer Legolas stared at them, the more they appeared to be writhing.

“The earth here is poisoned,” Legolas whispered. He could feel the evil pulsing like a torpid heartbeat from beneath the soil that had drunk too much blood and fed off the bodies left there to rot.

A hiss slithered on the air as the fog along the perimeter grew heavier, and Legolas’s next breath puffed out in a white cloud.

“We must hurry,” Aragorn said, wading into the brambles. He went left while Legolas went right, going slowly in search of the graves. Light was swiftly waning and the shadows grew more lively, twisting and contorting like attack hounds straining against their leashes.

Legolas swept his gaze across the ground, pushing clumps of shrubbery away. A twig snapped and he whipped his head up just as a skeletal figure leaped from the darkening trees. Legolas jumped backward. The wraith landed in front of him, crouched like a crazed beast. Glowing white eyes bulged from sunken sockets and thin threads of hair hung limply from a leathery scalp. Elongated fingernails curved out in three-inch talons.

A second, corporeal shade intercepted Aragorn before the Ranger could cross the clearing, and with ear-splitting shrieks, the two creatures attacked. Legolas wielded his torches as he would his twin knives, slashing back and forth at the revenant. It ducked under his swing and lunged; Legolas managed to deflect with the second branch, claws grating down the wood. He spun away before the shade could splinter the torch, for he knew to lose even one light could be fatal.

Legolas slammed the other flaming bough across the wraith’s back with a loud thud. The force flung the creature into a tree and Legolas followed through with a jab to the back. A tortured squeal ripped from a raw throat as tongues of fire licked across the shade’s skin.

Aragorn gave a startled yelp, and Legolas whirled to see him stumble into a ditch. The Ranger crossed his torches to block an attack, glancing down momentarily.

“Here!” he shouted. Aragorn twisted as though to drop one torch to the graves he had found, but the wight screamed in fury and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. With a sharp yank, it tossed him through the air and across the clearing. Aragorn hit the top of the stone altar and rolled off the other edge.

Legolas charged the second wraith, beating it back with quick successive swings of the burning torches. His gaze caught the trench Aragorn had discovered, filled with bones stacked several bodies high. An army of undead indeed.

He debated for only half a second before tossing both his torches into the ditch. A whoomp of ignited oxygen preceded a swelling of flames. Somewhere in the gathering fog outside the sacrificial circle, a spirit screamed. Bits of swirling mist began to wink out as its physicals tethers burned.

With an enraged shriek, the solid shade leaped at Legolas. He whipped his twin knives from their sheaths and slashed. Steel cut through bloodless sinew, nicking bone. He staggered back a step under the charging weight before throwing it off. A swish of bramble behind him had Legolas pivoting as talons swiped across his upper arm. Sharp, biting pain speared through his muscle, followed by the welling of warm blood.

He drove his knife into the revenant’s chest, which unfortunately did little to deter it. The creature grabbed his shoulders and sucked in a deep breath. Ice plunged from its fingertips into Legolas, and he felt that terrifying _tug_ once more.

Then a ribbon of fire arced through the air to bash the wraith in the side of the head. With a screech, it let go and staggered away, sliding free of the knife. Aragorn stood with his two torches still in hand, grey eyes alight with the fervor of battle.

Legolas gave himself a small shake to dispel the chill that had tried to reclaim him. To their left, the trench burned brightly now, having spread to fill one whole side of the clearing. As the fires consumed the remains, the mist along the perimeter churned and hissed in dying throes.

The two shades charged once more in a last desperate attempt to thwart them. Aragorn swung his torches at the one on the right, but it dodged, darting around in an attempt to get past the Ranger’s defenses. Legolas slashed his knives at the other wraith. He ducked forward and rammed both blades crossways just under the creature’s collar bone. Then with a wrench, he flung the body into the trench where it exploded in a burst of fire and agonized shrieks.

Turning to Aragorn, Legolas drew one arm back and threw one of his knives through the air to embed in the last revenant’s ear. The wight jerked in surprise, long enough for Aragorn to ram one torch into its stomach, punching through thin cartilage and bone. Then he drew his sword and with a quick swipe, beheaded the wraith. Its head plopped on the ground while the body remained standing, shaking and twisting in a contorted dance as the fire consumed it.

At last the screams died away, allowing Legolas to now hear the agitated fretting of the trees as they cursed the fires burning close to their roots. The elf did not move, however, nor did Aragorn, watching and waiting. Eventually, the flames decreased to a simmer, and only once they had eaten every bit of remains in the ditch did they burn out. The only light remaining was the single torch Aragorn still held, a steady, pulsing beacon in a sea of blackness.

“It is done,” Legolas said. With the flurry of battle seeping away, so was his energy. A dull throb alerted him to the cuts on his arm, but a quick glance showed they were not bleeding heavily. Probably due to the chilled touch that had stolen through his veins. He could not give in to weariness, however, for while the wraiths may have been vanquished, it was probably not safe to remain in this part of the forest at night.

“Are you injured?” he asked Aragorn.

The Ranger rolled one shoulder, wincing as he did so. “Bruises, nothing more. You?”

“Nothing serious.” Legolas plucked his knife from the decapitated head, then looked around warily, his eyes unable to pierce the cloying shadow that had fallen over the wood. “We should leave. I fear what other evils may have been drawn by the battle.”

Aragorn frowned, but nodded his agreement. “Shall we head back to Carrow?”

Legolas nodded. “I’m sure the villagers will be glad to hear the ghosts have finally left Mirkwood.” He paused, gaze roving the stone altar and where the ditch of burned bones was currently veiled in night’s cloak. “At least, these ghosts.” He was sure the forest was full of many, many more.

Their trek through the dark wood was slow but steady, both exhausted yet eager for open air again. Legolas kept glancing around nervously, half-expecting some stray shadow to slink out of the mist and paralyze him with its icy breath. But nothing stirred. Even the trees were silent, save for a few disappointed mumblings.

“Still think you will miss this?” Legolas spoke up.

Aragorn shot him a mystified look, then rolled his eyes. Their steps were lighter after that, no longer weighted by fear and trepidation regarding the unknown. There were many uncertainties in life. Some they knew were coming, others they stumbled into. But they always triumphed, for one thing was certain in every dark place either had ventured into—loyalty and devotion were the fires that kept hope burning.

When they at last passed under the border of Mirkwood into open air, Legolas tipped his head back with a deep breath and gazed at the star-strewn sky. The light soothed his heart, chasing the malevolent whispers from the trees and shadows away. It could not warm his blood, which still felt chilled, and he yearned for morning to come soon, to feel the sun’s kiss upon his brow.

He realized he had stopped, and so had Aragorn to wait for him. Legolas gave the man a reassuring nod, and they headed for Carrow. It was late, and they did not need to disturb the village, plus Legolas would prefer not to risk another confrontation with the more mule-headed of the bunch. So he and Aragorn silently made their way to Derreth’s house on the edge of town. A single lantern sat in the window, and when Aragorn rapped lightly on the door, a shadow jerked and detached from the background.

The door creaked open a crack, half of Derreth’s face peeking out suspiciously. It took a moment for him to blink and then open the door further. “You-you’re alive,” he sputtered.

Aragorn smiled. “You can tell your people they no longer have to fear the ghosts in the forest.”

Derreth stared at them, hope and doubt warring on his face. “That simple, is it?”

“I would not say it had been simple…” Aragorn cast a look at Legolas, and the elf knew his friend was switching to healer mode. The Ranger turned back to Derreth. “We just wanted to let you know. We’ll camp on the edge of town and leave by dawn.”

“Wait.” Derreth stepped back. “Please, come in. I don’t have much, but the least I could offer you is a place to sleep. You look as though you need it.”

Aragorn inclined his head. “Thank you.” He entered the house, and Legolas was forced to follow. Though he was loathe to admit it, proper rest within safe boundaries would be welcome after the past few days. Aragorn, however, had other ideas, as he lightly touched Legolas’s elbow and guided him to sit in a chair next to a kitchen table.

“What is the non-serious hurt you took?”

Legolas held back a sigh, but brought his arm around to rest on his knees. “It hardly bleeds. You should not be fussing when only half the night is left in which to rest.”

The man shot him a resolute glare. “If it is nothing, then it will take but a quick moment to treat.” He peeled back the tattered edges of Legolas’s sleeve to reveal three long gashes. They were not deep though, and as Legolas had said, were only weeping a drop of blood from one corner.

Derreth stood, peering over Aragorn’s shoulder, lips thinned at the sight. “I thought you had gone to face ghosts.” He moved away to fill a bowl with water and returned. Aragorn nodded his thanks.

“Ghosts apparently come in many forms,” Legolas responded.

Aragorn quickly cleaned the lacerations and wrapped them in bandages. Derreth had procured blankets for them, and Legolas almost kindly refused, but the minute shivers running through his limbs gave him pause. So he accepted, curling his fingers into the coarse wool. Derreth retreated to his own bed in a back room while Aragorn settled on the floor.

Legolas shifted in the chair. “We should make for Rivendell tomorrow,” he said quietly.

Aragorn rolled over, frowning at the blanket Legolas held bunched in his hands. “Is it the wraith’s touch? Should we leave now?”

He shook his head. “Nay, I am fine, just…” Legolas grimaced in distaste. “Cold,” he admitted. He did not know how to describe the raw wound he felt within his spirit, nor did he want to worry Aragorn when there was nothing the man could do about it. Rest and sunlight would mend his _fëa_ , things he would not find in abundance back home in Eryn Lasgalen in the underground elven-halls, as much as it pained him to admit.

Aragorn studied him worriedly for a long moment. “Alright. I’m sure Lord Elrond will be pleased to see us both.”

Legolas offered a small smile of gratitude. Should he still be feeling chilled by the time they reached Imladris, he would consent to Lord Elrond’s ministrations. Aragorn would not let this go anyway, and despite how such fussiness irritated Legolas at times, deep down it warmed his heart like a balm to his weary soul.

He spread the blanket over himself and leaned back in the chair. “Besides,” he added quietly. “I would rather send word to my father of our misadventure from a safe distance.”

Aragorn snorted, snuggling under the blanket. Legolas turned his head to the side to gaze out the window and up at the stars, letting the twinkling beacons of hope be the vision that graced his eyes before he drifted into the dream paths.


	7. Epilogue

Legolas sat on the rail of the balcony, one leg drawn up, head leaning back against the white marble pillar as he basked in the warm rays of the sun. Eight days in Rivendell had done wonders for his frayed spirit. He no longer felt cold, and only for brief moments during the night when the moon or stars were veiled and a breeze wafted through his open window did he experience a brush of chill, but it was fleeting. Lord Elrond had looked him over when they first arrived, listened to their tale with a fixed crease in his brow, and at the end concluded what Legolas already knew: peace and rest were the only remedies for such a malady. According to the healer, Legolas had been recovering well, which meant soon he would have to depart for home.

"How are you, _mellon nîn_?"

Legolas glanced over as Aragorn stepped onto the terrace and took a seat on the railing across from him. He smiled warmly. "Well."

Aragorn looked rested too, washed and adorned in the fine garb of the elves, closer to the king he would be than the Ranger he was.

"You have gotten your soft bed after all," the elf said with a grin.

Aragorn chuckled. "Why must it usually accompany one of us being injured?"

Legolas turned his head to admire the golden, sun-speckled trees of the gardens below. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

They sat in companionable silence for several moments, but Legolas felt more than saw when Aragorn's countenance turned troubled. "It is too bright a day for a shadow to darken your face."

The man startled out of his reverie, then shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Do not apologize. What troubles you?"

Aragorn gave him a canted look. "Many things." He scrutinized Legolas for a prolonged moment.

The elf rolled his eyes, albeit good-naturedly. “You have Lord Elrond's assurance I am well, so what else occupies your thoughts?"

Aragorn glanced over his shoulder as though afraid to be overheard. "It has been a long time since I stayed in the house of Lord Elrond. Returning is...bittersweet."

Legolas nodded. "Elrond was once your foster-father, a source of comfort and refuge from the world; now he is the voice spurring you toward a destiny you wish to postpone."

Aragorn arched a brow in surprise. "Am I so transparent?"

"Perhaps only to one who is quite familiar with dual roles."

Aragorn fell silent for a moment. "Your father will be glad of your return," he said at last.

Legolas shifted his position slightly, tilting his face further into the caressing sun beams. "I suppose. But my king will command more patrols, more action. There is always fighting to be done at home. My stay here has been selfish."

"You needed it."

"I could have managed." A wound to the spirit was no different from a physical one, for both hurt, though in different ways. And Legolas had fought through pain often enough in the past. He sighed, reaching out to touch the boughs of a maple arching over the balcony. Its voice was sweet like rivers of honey, tinkling with musical chords of wind chimes. It suffused joy and gladness in Legolas's heart in a way few of the Woodland Realm trees could these days.

Aragorn picked at a stray thread on his tunic. "Sometimes..." he said slowly. "We all must be a little selfish. To be completely selfless, to always give everything you have for others, will eventually bleed you dry. Then what will you offer but a shell of what you once were?"

Legolas angled an amused look at his friend. "Now you speak like a wizard."

Aragorn laughed lightly, but then turned to face him in all seriousness. "I know we must fight, _mellon nîn_. I know neither of our paths are easy, that we each bear terrible responsibility. But because of that, I do not think anyone would begrudge us the moments we take for ourselves." He paused, gazing intently at the elf. "I would see you happy and untroubled, Legolas, even if only for a few days."

Legolas returned Aragorn's steady gaze, hearing both the truth and wisdom in the man's words. He smiled. "As I would you."

The world was colored in too many shades of darkness. Perhaps neither of them could envision the end of all their battles, but there was love, light, and beauty in the spaces between fighting that gave them glimpses, if only they allowed themselves to see.


End file.
